Seeing Red
by writingmom
Summary: Oneshot based on Redemption. A different, more shipper friendly ending.


I like to paint my toenails. With each deliberate stroke of the brush, I'm reminded of how much fun it was to color when I was little. It was an escape back then. It's relaxation now. With each blot into the bottle of Fireball Red, I slowly and carefully transform the blank canvas of nail into a vivacious masterpiece. I'm proud to be a Marine, but sometimes drab green can get a girl down. Every now and then, I need to see color. Even if it is hiding under my shoes all day, I know it's there. Red and brilliant, shiny and neat. It goes nicely with my navy silk pajamas. Navy. An odd choice for someone who appreciates the value of color, and yet, I know why I had to have them.

I stretch my feet out to dry on the table before me and lean back to admire my work. It's a good life that I have. I like my job. I have great friends, a cozy apartment. The fact that I'm alone on a Friday night should bother me, but it doesn't. Well, not really. I mean, I like to be alone. I like the quietness of a clean apartment. I like the fact that I have very little work staring at me from the dining room table. I like the fact that my mind is clearing from the fog that enveloped it for so long. I'm going to be o.k. I realize now that Mic was a choice that I made out of hurt and that wasn't fair to him or to me. It's about time that I grow up, I smirk to myself. As long as I don't have to stop painting my toenails.

I'm about to grab the remote control to turn on a movie when I hear the knock. I don't know how, but I always recognize his knock. Silly, but I do. I walk delicately on my wet painted toes to the door and open it without thinking. I'm in my pajamas. I realize this at the same time that he realizes it. I see him realize it because he's looking me up and down and yet trying not to. Damn, he's cute when he's trying not to be.

"Come in." I say with curiosity. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, ah. I'm fine. Listen, I'm sorry for coming by so late, but I needed to pick your brain about Commander Webster."

Mildly disappointed, I cover by making myself some coffee and hold tightly to the mug as I find my way back to the couch. I listen as he begins telling me about his case. In two seconds I can tell that he's trying to complicate the simple again. He has a talent for that.

Finally, I speak. "Harm, you're stating the obvious. You understand attorney client privilege and you know the rules. You didn't drive 75 miles to ask me a bunch of what ifs that you already know the answer to." I didn't realize that I would strike a nerve.

He tries to cover by making a joke about seeing me in my pajamas, but I can tell there's something else. I'm not about to drag it out of him. He came to me. It's been a rollercoaster the last few months, but he's here and it means a lot right now. I'm not going to push.

"No, you're right. I didn't just come here for the case."

What? Is he about to have a conversation with me that I don't want to have? And it was going to be such a good night.

"Mac, I wanted you to hear it from me. Renee and I—we—" Before he can finish, I feel my stomach sink. I set my cup down on the table and brace myself for the bad news.

"We, uh, aren't together anymore. It's official." He's afraid to look at me, but finally, he does. 

I want to smile, scream, jump into his arms, but I can't. I shouldn't. I'm a mature woman who is determined to make wise relationship decisions from now on. Thankfully, I respond appropriately. "Are you o.k. with that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Relieved, actually." Sweet mercy. Is this happening? Is he scooting to the edge of his chair to get closer to—he's grabbing my hands. "Listen, I know that you've been through a lot lately. We both have. But what I said in my apartment. I meant it. We can't get past this thing with us, and really, Mac, I don't know why we try anymore."

I'm melting. Right here on my couch, I can feel myself turn to liquid. For someone who has just resolved to be a mature woman, I feel an awful lot like a silly fifteen-year-old inside. It's my turn to speak. Damn. He's waiting. I think he's starting to get scared. I look down at our now joined hands to muster up the strength to say something else.

"I don't either." I'm going to do it. I'm going to look him in the eyes.

That's all it took. His jacket is off and I am lying on my couch with the man that I love completely covering me in my navy silk pajamas. He's kissing me with fury and tenderness combined. I can't get enough of him. My hands take in his muscles and my mouth his own. He's holding me, as much as he can from where he is positioned. I feel him pull me closer as if he can't get enough either.

Breaking for air, I say it. I can't believe it, but I say it. "I love you." Before I have time to kick myself, he says it back. "I love you too." And then, "Nice pajamas. I like the color." My mouth curves upward as much as it possibly can given its position at the moment.

"Thanks. I've always been partial to navy." I breathe and he smiles. I hook my foot around the back of his calf and pull him down again. Catching a glimpse of the red that adorns my toes, I smile inwardly this time. Being alone on a Friday night is so overrated.


End file.
